by Talbot Mundy
Thunder silenced them again. Lightning showed them to each other, in shimmering flashes that brought the cave walls leaping out of darkness. A furious squall battered the ledge with hail. Then, relatively, there was quiet.
“Andrew — is there something I should do to help Tom — to make it easier?”
“There’s always something,” he answered, “but secondhand stuff’s no good.”
“You mean I should go and speak to him?”
“No. You should do what you choose, off your own bat.”
She nodded. “I don’t feel vindictive. But I don’t choose to speak first. I haven’t told you what he said, ten minutes after we met.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Andrew, what is there I can do?”
“I know what I’ll do,” he answered. “I’ll stand by Tom until he needs me no longer.”
“He doesn’t need me,” Elsa objected. “He said so.”
“After that I’m off home to America. I guess that’ll be soon. I know Tom’s intention.”
“What? What is it? Tell me!”
“He told me in confidence.”
The storm was fighting a rear-guard action now, bringing up new batteries of thunder to mask the main retreat that rolled away along the valley southward. Frenzied blasts of wind shrieked like charging devils, reached their objective and died. Then speech was possible again.
“One night you told me about what you will do in America.”
“I’ll take the first job that offers. One thing leads to another. I won’t forget what I’ve learned. I guess I’ll do what I know.”
He laughed. The humor of it suddenly occurred to him: a little personal equation was lifting its head amid almost cosmic grandeur. And why “almost”? Reality was there — then — eternally — now — that minute — microcosm within macrocosm. It was his to command — part of his consciousness — his to mold as he pleased.
He didn’t hesitate. He took Elsa into his arms — hugged her to him — kissed her storm-wet face until she sobbed for breath — struggling. He didn’t know his own strength.
“Andrew, please — please!”
Tom Grayne came in then, using his flashlight. He had the generosity to switch it off. He had the self-control to wait for one of them to speak.
Andrew said quietly: “Elsa will come with me to America, as soon as this show’s over.”
Tom used his flashlight again. He was about to speak. Elsa burst in ahead of him:
“No, Andrew, no! Tom, it isn’t true!”
“I wouldn’t share a wife with my best friend,” Tom answered.
Andrew cautioned him: “Easy!”
Elsa thrust herself between them. “Tom! Andrew! Please! Listen to me! I’m not worth fighting for! This is all my fault — all of it! An-drew, I will no more be a load on you — ruin your life — than I’ll consent to spoil Tom’s any longer!”
“Your life’s your own,” Andrew answered. “I have asked you to share it with me.”
“I know, I know! Oh, Andrew, you’re too generous to live! You think I’m helpless, so you offer—”
“I asked,” said Andrew.
“Andrew, I couldn’t accept that, even if — even if—”
“I do,” he interrupted. “I have loved you since before Darjeeling.”
“Andrew, please don’t blaspheme! You know that isn’t true! It couldn’t be. You’re being generous and—”
He interrupted again: “Tom — turn your light on both of us. — Now, Elsa — in the presence of Tom Grayne — chin up — I love you. Do you love me?”
She couldn’t answer. She stared, wide-eyed. He repeated:
“I love you with all my heart. Do you love me?”
She spoke suddenly, in gasps because her heart was thumping:
“Andrew, it’s too late! I have asked Lobsang Pun to take me as his chela—”
She stopped — stared. Tom followed her gaze. He moved the flashlight, turning half around to face the entrance.
The light framed Old Ugly-face.
The wind had died. Like a back drop behind him, snow fell in big silent flakes that looked like shredded gold in the rays of the electric torch.
CHAPTER 58
There was no wind now, but a hushed silence, in which the soft snowfall was almost audible. Except that his eyes glittered in the light of Tom Grayne’s torch, Old Ugly-face looked like a statue wonderfully carved from grained wood — an image of the daemon of the storm — who had compelled the storm to cease — hooded — dripping with thawing snow — contemptuously angry. At last he spoke:
“Faggot! Three fools in one! Tied in one bundle by knots of fear!”
“Fear of what?” Andrew demanded.
Elsa shuddered. Andrew was too calm. He was an explosion — conceived — on the brink of becoming. She reached for his hand — held it. He crushed her fingers until she could hardly endure the pressure. But she did endure it, in silence — until Old Ugly-face said sternly:
“Fearing means being end, and end being means!”
Elsa’s right hand disengaged Andrew’s fingers. She chafed her own, then took his hand again, knowing a scapegoat is an almost irresistible temptation. She herself — how often! — had been whipping girl for the relief of prejudices that had power to be cruel. Ministers, teachers, parents had habitually vented hatred on her that was really hatred of their own grossness. More than once Tom had forgotten dignity; reason, justice. She could forgive Tom’s outbreaks; him she no longer loved, nor did she wish him to love her. But the dread that Andrew might behave unmanly made her heart sick. She prayed for him, almost in words aloud.
Old Ugly-face continued to answer Andrew: “Seeking spirit! Three hungry jackals sniffing blood from far-off!” He paused. “Seeking vision! Ravens pecking eyes of corpses!” A longer pause. Then, with rising scorn: “Hunting happiness! Pigs rooting for fallen fruit to glut their bellies!” He thrust out his lower lip. His eyes glittered indignation: “Your begging favors — of me!”
Silence. He had such power that waiting seconds became aeons of humiliation — eternities, in which to fall from self-esteem into the stagnant deeps of self-contempt. It was beyond Elsa’s endurance that Andrew should be so cast down. She pleaded:
“Father Mahatma—”
Old Ugly-face rebuked her savagely: “Your calling me by that blessed name, your lying tongue soon bearing false witness against you also! My being less than dirt at my Master’s feet!”
Silence again. He glared at Andrew, his lips moving amid the wrinkles as if he chewed on words to moisten them. He selected a phrase — hurled it:
“Life! — Liberty! — P’soot of happiness!” His gesture was like the down-turned thumb of a Vestal. “Life too small, too short for your stupidity — if your thinking liberty and do-as-damn-please being same thing!”
Andrew showed interest. The far-away lightning stabbed the dying night. Thunder rolled sullenly. Old Ugly-face raised a huge prayer wheel that he had taken from some hermit; it looked like a mace from a house of parliament. In its bronze bulb, that revolved when shaken, were a thousand incantations written on scraps of parchment. Each turn of the shaken wheel was a thousand blessings on the footsteps of the pilgrims on the Path from mortal matter — nothingness to spiritual being. He shook the thing at Andrew again and again:
“My telling you! Your listening! P’soot of happiness being same as running away from happiness! Idiot! How can your p’sooing what is beautifully p’sooing you? Running away round — around! Circle! Time your waking up! Snoring deep-sleeper! Happiness being cause, not effect! Grief becoming yours because your p’sooing happiness! Burrowing vole! Why your not letting happiness overtaking you, employing and bringing wisdom? Your being fearful of being — doing what your knowing! Man not being means toward end! All ends being means toward man! — Damned old bugger, am I!”
Almost imperceptibly Andrew bowed acknowledgment that the Force behind the scourging words had aimed straight, blow upon blow. Old
Ugly-face glared, scowled, turned on Tom Grayne, reading him now. Anger waned. The Asiatic eyes lost no fire, but they burned with another flame, less merciless. After a long pause he said slowly:
“My also being too much sinful — liquidating karma — must not refuse!” Silence for ten heartbeats. Then: “But can your being humble?”
“I don’t know,” Tom answered. “I wish to find out.” His voice sounded so screwy and his words so flat that he himself balked; he coughed — pretended to clear his throat. But he stole a triumphant glance sideways at Elsa, his thought leaping like a spark from pole to pole:
“Steal my track, would you! I win!”
Andrew caught the thought as clearly as if it were directed at him. He squeezed Elsa’s hand. Old Ugly-face said to Tom:
“Time now for being-doing! Now our soon seeing what karma bringing forth!”
The old man rounded his lips and boomed the sacred syllable that holds within itself all ends and all beginnings, leaving only the Path to appear:
“Aum-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m!”
Then he turned his back. Shaking the big prayer wheel, he trudged away into the snow and vanished.
Tom looked like the shadow of anticlimax. He had boasted not secretly enough and too soon. After a moment, forcing his voice to be calm, he said to Andrew: “Shall we keep together?”
Andrew switched on his flashlight. He answered stiffly: “It’s up to you. You’re head man.”
Tom’s voice changed again. He sounded shameless, because shame tortured him: “The worst is ahead. Old Ugly-face thinks he fooled me, but I know him. He believes he can finish without our help. If he can, he will. Foreigners are outlaws. He’s the anti-foreigner. It ‘ud look bad to succeed with foreign help. So, if we can’t hang on, he’ll shake us and say it was our karma.”
“We must finish what we started,” said Andrew.
“That’s the point. This is the last move. Let’s stick together.”
“We’d better feed our men,” Andrew suggested.
Tom agreed: “You attend to it. I’ll watch Old Ugly-face. I’ll have to go close or maybe lose him in the snow. When he gets going I’ll—” He hesitated.
“Fire three shots,” said Andrew. “We’ll be able to hear that.”
“Right. I’ll do it. You look after the men.”
Andrew framed Elsa in torchlight against the cave wall. Tom didn’t look at her. He switched off his own light and vanished. Andrew took her in his arms.
“Kiss me,” he said, “and say I’m wonderful! I need a pep-talk.”
“Andrew, you’re—”
“That’s enough. Hold it. Probably we’ll all be dead by sunrise, but let’s give it a whirl. We won’t die lonely, you and I. Oh, Jesus Christ, I hate to see Tom Grayne crack like a politician!”
“Andrew, Tom has been a long time all alone — almost like Peary and the North Pole — sacrificing, enduring, striving to win a secret. He has worked and worked. Now he feels we’re stealing his—”
“I know. I know. Christ give him the guts to finish clean! Elsa! If I should lose sight of the end for the sake of the means, just shoot me, will you!”
“Andrew, I won’t ever be there — Turn of the light. It’s a symbol. It hurts. Let us talk in the dark, it’s truer.”
He did as she asked.
“Andrew, you’re being nobly generous. I know that of you. But as for loving me, I simply can’t believe it.”
“But who wants to believe? What do you know? What does your heart say?”
“Andrew, it trembles.”
“You’re tired, that’s all that’s the matter. You need sleep. You’ve been on the go since daybreak.”
“Andrew, I’m only bewildered. I don’t feel too tired. I think you don’t understand that I asked Lobsang Pun to take me as his chela. That’s irrevocable. Don’t you understand it’s a solemn act of submission? It commits me until—”
“Did he say yes?”
“No.”
“What did he say?”
“He said a strange thing.”
“What?”
“He said ‘Patience! Love doesn’t come between man and woman!’ I think he meant me and Tom.”
Andrew laughed grimly: “You listen to me. If that old mystic knows a tenth of what I credit him with, he knows how long I’ve loved you, and how hard I’ve had to fight to keep you from finding it out.”
“Andrew! You mean—”
He rearranged the hood of her overcoat — re-tied her muffler. He switched on the light, tucked her arm through his and set out through the snow for the cave where the Tibetans waited, talking as they went.
“I’ve played square with Tom — gave him the last chance he’s entitled to, and one more for good measure. So now you’re mine. If Ugly-face believes the contrary, he’ll have to be taught.”
She stopped him after a moment, clinging to him, pulling, so that they faced each other.
“Andrew! Look at me! You must! You must understand! This temptation! It is what they say always happens—”
“Who said it?”
“Nancy Strong said it.”
“Damn Nancy Strong. Let her mind her own business.”
“It always happens, to everyone who makes a vow of—”
“You haven’t made your vow yet. I’ve made mine. I made it to me and to you.”
“Andrew, always the temptation comes. It’s always wonderful — so luring — so tender! It looks like heaven. But oh, Andrew, dear, I love you too much to ruin your life. I won’t! So this is hail and farewell! It’s good-bye. Kiss me again, once more — this one last—”
He switched off the light ... When he could speak he said:
“Swell. That settles it. It’s good-bye to the old life — on with the new! — You’ll like America,” he added.
“Andrew, I’d love anywhere where you are, but—”
“Love me, love my U.S.A.!” he answered. “Come on, let’s turn out the men!”
The crowded cave where the Tibetans waited hummed with argument. They had boiled tea long ago, using yak-dung they had carried with them. Bompo Tsering had doled out cupfuls to the phony lama’s men— “to keeping them alive for Tum-Glain’s killing,” as he explained to Andrew. Bompo Tsering and St. Malo’s headman Ga-pa-dug seemed to have struck up a friendship; but the phony lama had been telling wild tales about dugpas and the spirits of dead hermits. He had more than half of the men verging on mutiny. Even some of Andrew’s men were hesitating. A breech-bolt clicked. Andrew thrust Elsa out of the way. The phony lama picked up a lump of diorite and hurled — missed Andrew’s head by an inch.
That saved the situation. It was the catalyst. It crystallized emotions into plus and minus. Men knew their minds. Bompo Tsering and Ga-pa-dug jumped on the phony lama — kicked, beat, cursed him — tore away his rosary and relics — ran him out into the snow and left him sprawling more dead than alive.
“Barley!” said Andrew. “Give the rest of ’em barley.”
“But, Gunnigun—”
“Feed them! Did you hear me?”
The spare barley bag was tossed to the punishment squad. They pounced on it filled their mouths, then pockets.
“Now then! Who marches with me? Who gets thrown over the cliff?”
No answer, though Andrew waited while a man could chew on hard barley five or six times. Ga-pa-dug nudged Bompo Tsering, who spoke to Andrew:
“Gunnigun — what now?”
“I have wasted food! Throw them over the cliff. Begin with that man.”
The only difficulty then was to prevent the execution. The malingerers begged mercy, crying, struggling, protesting willingness, flinging themselves on the ground — kicked, beaten. Andrew’s shouts were unheard in the tumult; he had loosed savagery that he couldn’t stop.
Luck interfered — chance — the signal chosen at random and the stark coincidence of time. Tom Grayne’s three pistol shots, deadened by the snowfall, announced that Old Ugly-face was on
the move. They sounded like torpedoes on a fog-bound railroad track. Andrew answered instantly. He fired three shots at the sky. The fighting ceased.
Andrew roared: “Fall in!” Then after a moment the familiar command: “Bompo Tsering leading — column two by two — march!”
They obeyed. They left their phony lama sprawling in the snow and trudged forward, not knowing whither or why. The phony lama slunk back to the cave.
“Jesus!” said Andrew, tucking Elsa’s arm through his. He shortened his stride, so that she could keep step. “You and I have seen death close up lots of times. But that was the nearest. We’ve got to watch out. They’re as touchy as fulminate.”
CHAPTER 59
The storm, veering around in a wide arc, began to return, like a dog to its vomit. Thunder and lightning again, but not much wind yet. From a black sky lightning stabbed the whirling snow and revealed the procession, in shimmering glimpses — Old Ugly-face leading. The grand old mystic had seized his moment, and doubt was not in him. He was destiny’s agent, self-identified — a swimmer on the rising tide of spirit — beyond praise. In his right fist he shook the prayer wheel. Andrew and Elsa couldn’t hear him, but he appeared to be chanting. Behind him, in groups of twos, threes, dozens, the naked hermits trouped like ghosts arisen from their graves.
“Lord love and look at us!” said Andrew. “It’s almost too crazy to fail! Almost! It’s like the Angels at Mons. Did Old Ugly-face tell you his plan?”
“No. I saw him rout out the hermits and harangue them. I heard some of it — a little. It was like the end of the world and people rising from the dead. Lobsang Pun pulled and kicked down the wall of the first cave and dragged the hermit out.”
“How near were you?”
“As close as I could get without Tom seeing me. I didn’t want Tom to see me, because I knew — well, you know what he did think. Lobsang Pun shook that first hermit — pulled his beard — told him it was time to translate merit into action. The hermit resisted. He pleaded sanctuary. Lobsang Pun accused him of having guzzled virtue in his cave like a pig in a pen — said he’d need ten million years in hell to purge his vanity unless he stirred himself. He said the Shig-po-ling monastery has become a cesspool in which the monks wallow in lust. He blamed that on the hermits — especially that first one. ‘If you’re a saint,’ he shouted at him, ‘you should know better. If you’re not a saint, now is your opportunity to be one!’ It was from him that he took the prayer wheel. He beat the hermit with it. After that they prayed together, and presently the hermit was helping him to break into the other caves.”